


Dreams and Nightmares

by Dogsled



Category: Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Clark Kent Angst, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Lois Lane Puts Up With a Lot of Shit, M/M, Memories, Nightmares, Pre-Poly, Protective Bruce, Psychological Trauma, Requited Unrequited Love, Sleep Deprivation, Tags Are Hard, Use Your Words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16644089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dogsled/pseuds/Dogsled
Summary: Wrote this fic in 2011, republishing here.> Clark's taken a lot on his shoulders for Bruce. Stolen memories pepper Superman's dreams and endanger his relationship with his wife.Set after the Emperor Joker crossover storyline, where at the conclusion to the story Clark convinces Mr. Mxyzptlk to give him all of Bruce's memories of being tortured to death.





	Dreams and Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a gift, and now republished here 7 years later, because I found it and it's actually pretty good. Please don't expect more Bruce/Clark from me, since I write in the SPN fandom now. Any universe inconsistencies are par for the course, really, but I hope you all like it!
> 
> Re. the love triangle here: I ship supportive Lois/Clark and Bruce/Clark who so terrible on their own they need to be together (and Lois knows that). There's no wife bashing here, just happy pre-polyamory with a lot of hurt/comfort implications.

Lois couldn't precisely recall when things had changed, she just knew that they had. Had it been between one day and the next? In the interlude of weeks, or months? It was hard to tell. All she knew was that the man that lay beside him in their bed - if he could be called a man at all - was not the same one that she had married. A wife could tell.  
  
He would mutter in his sleep, and sweat, his lips anxiously parted, his fists tightly closed in his sheets, and the few times that she had dared to try to wake him had ended up in such dangerous flailing that - in a panic and not knowing what to do - she had rushed out of the bedroom and sat anxiously on the couch all night instead, trying to tune out the sound of his voice, his mutters, and the occasional scream.  
  
At least, she knew, it couldn't possibly be an affair. Maybe he'd been infected with some alien virus. Maybe it was Brainiac back for another try. Whatever it was, it wasn't Clark. She told herself that it wouldn't stay like this; there'd be a cure and he'd snap out of it. Things would go back to normal.  
  
And then one night he woke with a startled 'Bruce,' and when she questioned him about it he only looked guilty, and refused to explain himself.  
  
Something was wrong.  
  
\----  
  
Every night a different memory. Every night a different dream. Every night trapped in a powerless body, forced to die, unable to fight, drowning in his own despair and pain and misery. Every night he was Batman, and every night he died.  
  
Clark didn't know weakness; he didn't know powerlessness, not unless there was Kryptonite involved. He hadn't the experience of death or the expectation of it, after all he was invulnerable. He had never felt pain like this - the peck of a crow's beak, the gnawing of rat's teeth, piranha fish or tiny little flesheating ants - nor had he any reason to imagine he ever would. Not outside of Bruce's memories, at least.  
  
It made every dream more surreal. Invulnerable flesh devoured, corrupting diseases eating through to his soul, drowning in oceans of blood, kicked to death by clowns. No matter the death he suffered, it was never meant for him, and when he awoke it would be to the knowledge that it was a memory - Bruce's memory - and the fact that he had chosen this suffering, taken it upon himself to bear it in strong silence; because he could.  
  
But Bruce didn't know about the dreams. He could never know.  
  
\----  
  
She tried to make sure that everything stayed the same.  
  
Every morning they would try and have breakfast together, even if most mornings one or the other of them had to rush out with a slice of toast pinned between their teeth and hair unbrushed. Some days Clark would have to superspeed Lois' presspass out to her as she hopped down the last few stairs, pulling on her other shoe. She pretended that things were normal because, during the day at least, they were.  
  
He still saved the world, and she still wrote about it. Sometimes they even saw each other.  
  
The same went for the bedroom.  
  
Lois had always been adventurous, and Clark had always been happy to indulge her. They had a warm, experimental relationship, with nothing held back and nothing hidden. So Lois didn't think twice about sneaking a long black feather out from under the pillow, and kissing her way down Clark's leg to get his attention.  
  
She couldn't know that the brush of the feather against his skin was a sound that Clark heard often in his nightmares. Ripping talons and tearing flesh, feathers scratching against skin, growing wet with blood, splashing it against his face.  
  
He saw red.  
  
Picking plaster out of her hair from the ripped open ceiling - still sizzling at the edges - Lois said: "I knew you were ticklish, but that's a little over the top, don't you think?"  
  
\----  
  
On the worst nights, Clark woke up in terror, unable to get a strong enough hold on his powers to focus on the reassuring beat of Bruce's heart, far away in Gotham. Twice a month or so he would find himself flying into Gotham in a blind panic, relaxing only when he could look through Bruce's window and see him sleeping peacefully.  
  
Not dead. And not living with the hell of these memories, he reminded himself.  
  
Bruce could sleep peacefully because Clark couldn't. And that was just fine.  
  
He could see the stress it caused Lois.  
  
It got better. Sometimes it was worse. Then it would be better again. Years passed. But it was only a reprieve. One day the nightmares came back worse than ever. The screams rattled in his head, and he woke panting and sweat soaked night after night, skin prickling, heart racing, Lois sitting up, white and terrified in the bed beside him.  
  
Funny. After all the years of fighting aliens and escaped convicts, mad scientists, supercomputers, mad gods and people from the future, after everything that they had been through together, it was a decision Clark had made, something as human and simple as nightmares; nightmares which had begun to rip at their legendary dream. Lois was perfect; she could adapt to anything, overcome any challenge. But not this one.  
  
He loved her.  
  
And because he loved her, he needed to be alone.  
  
\----  
  
The day he said that he was leaving had been a day like any other, just like the day that she had been told at last that the two men she loved were one and the same, and the day that he had proposed to her. A perfectly normal day, except for the moment where the world came crashing down around her ears.  
  
He wasn't leaving Earth, he was going to the Fortress of Solitude. But 'indefinitely' was a word that terrified her. Forever didn't sound permanent. Indefinitely sounded...  
  
Even repeating his words in her head brought tears back to her eyes.  
  
Indefinitely.  
  
It was supposed to be forever. Selfish, sure, but it was meant to be until death do us part.  
  
He told her that he didn't want to hurt her, that he might wake up from one of his nightmares and strike out at her. That he could bring the whole apartment block down on them. She understood.  
  
It meant he didn't know how to fix it either, and that terrified her more than she could say. It made her angry too, not at him, but at Bruce. So two weeks after Clark had gone north, she confronted the billionaire.  
  
And at mention of the nightmares, the reason, Bruce had gone quiet and refused to tell her anything else. She knew he knew, but even threatening to expose him as Batman - in tearful desperation - didn't break his inpenetrable armour.  
  
\----  
  
He heard the stealth plane coming from thousands of miles away.  
  
When it landed, Clark's heart leapt. He knew why Bruce was here, could guess how he'd found out, but what would happen now... He couldn't begin to guess. Would he be angry? Try to shake - or perhaps beat - some sense into him?  
  
Clark didn't expect the hand - not a gauntlet - that fell on his shoulder, the faded, tired eyes that met his own bleakly as he turned around to face the other man. Where was the cowl? Where had all of Bruce's fury gone?  
  
Evasive, he stepped away, shook his head.  
  
"I wanted to be alone."  
  
"That's my line, Clark."  
  
Silence from the Kryptonian. Bruce didn't speak either, not for a considerable length of time, as though balancing whether or not his legend could sustain a conversation that risked brushing so close to absolution. He didn't forgive, and he was always vigilant; caution kept him alive. But if he could forgive anyone, why not Superman, for one of the greatest violations against his memory to date. It was ridiculous.  
  
Grimacing, he forced out the words: "You've carried those memories around for more than a decade. The way you acted - so high and mighty, so invulnerable - I guess it never occured to me that you just couldn't handle it." He couldn't resist the barb, it slipped off his tongue like grammar; just the way Batsentences came out.  
  
And when Clark didn't reply, his gaze lost in bleak crystal rather than on the other man--  
  
"I never said 'Thank You'," a breath, and with a harsh growl punctuating it "--and I never will. But I know why you did it even if you haven't worked it out quite yet."  
  
Finally. Finally he had Clark's attention. Knowing, alien blue eyes suddenly looked confused; lost. What did Bruce know that he didn't?  
  
The Arctic ice might as well have frozen his feet to the ground. He didn't move as Bruce stepped forward, didn't flinch as he was kissed, simply closed his eyes. And when it stopped he breathed out, as though he'd been holding a breath all these years without realising it. And where uncertainty, horror and confusion ought to have fallen into place - This is Bruce. Kissing me. A man. Why would he--? Does he love me? Do I love him? What about Lois? I love Lois - there was only distinct clarity. And Bruce's words:  
  
"You wouldn't have taken that burden for just anyone."  
  
Clark's smile was wry, miserable, and he met Bruce's gaze again. "You're wrong."  
  
A pause from Bruce, but the smile was echoed, something more hopeful from Gotham's darkest prince, and a correction; an admonishment. "You would have taken the memories from anyone. But you bore them for me. They hurt you because they hurt me."  
  
Understanding, then misery again. Clark looked away.  
  
"What now?"  
  
"Conquering the darkness is what I do best, Clark. And Lois needs you."  
  
Lois. Bruce's hand returned to his shoulder, forced his attention one last time, because clearly the whole point of flying out to the Arctic to have this conversation wasn't getting through.  
  
"I need you. So pull yourself together and get your head out of the damn snow, Kent." In a way it was almost affectionate. Their eyes met. "Don't make me say it out loud."

Love. The unspoken words rang like a bell. Bruce would never say them, but Clark pressed anyway. "How long have you known?"  
  
"Since I've known you."  
  
"You didn't know me."  
  
A shake of his head. "Since I've known you, Clark." As if to say 'Try and listen next time.'  
  
"And the memories, the ones I took away?"  
  
Bruce's expression hardened. "Just more proof that you're a damned idiot."  
  
"I couldn't see you like that." Desperate. Pleading. He had to understand.  
  
Bruce already did. Acknowledging it was something else entirely; it was admitting weakness, dependence, defeat. It was admitting that he hadn't been strong enough, that there was a limit to his tolerance, that one day he might break. Again.  
  
Instead he shook it off. "It was years ago."  
  
"I can't just forget. I've tried every meditation technique I know. Human, Kryptonian--"  
  
"You're so eager to throw my memories away."  
  
Clark's response was fierce, his voice almost quivering. "You're dying. Over and over again. It feels like me but I know it's you."  
  
"They belong to me. They're mine. My pain is yours. That makes you a custodian over everything I am. My pain and my..." He'd almost said too much.  
  
"Your love," Clark finished. He _had_ said too much. Clark went on, though. "Why send me back to Lois?" It sounded like a stupid question. Bruce couldn't keep him from her, but he didn't need to be here, offering to help, wanting to. Kissing him.  
  
"Because I'm not selfish enough to want to keep you for myself. Superman belongs to the world, and Clark Kent belongs to Lois Lane."  
  
"Then what do you get out of this?  
  
"You." A pause. "Indefinitely."  
  
"Indefinitely?"  
  
\----  
  
The thing was, Lois Lane had been furious.  
  
"Didn't you hear me?" Her hair was in disarray, her eyes red from crying, and she had already slapped him once. "I said I'll tell everyone who you really are! I mean it! Tell me what happened to my husband!"  
  
She was quaking with frustration, but she heaved in a deep breath, tried to put on a level tone, pointing one finger at Bruce.  
  
"I understand if you think you're protecting him from me by not telling me that you've slept together, it would certainly explain how you knew about the nightmares in the first place, and god knows you two can't keep your eyes off each other, but if that's all it is--"  
  
Bruce put his finger over her mouth to shut her up. She considered biting it off.  
  
"Slept with him?"  
  
"Don't even think about it, buster! I'm a reporter, remember? I call it like I see it. The only reason I haven't said anything about it is because I don't want to mess up this whole World's Finest thing you two have. And the fact that actually I'm okay with that. But don't lie to me."  
  
"Lois..." he used her first name deliberately. "We haven't slept with each other." No sharp barb here. Bruce was a little startled, actually. And lost. Deep in thought. Were they really that obvious?  
  
"I said don't--Really? Why not?"  
  
"Why not? Apart from the obvious?"  
  
A snort from Lois. "Him? I thought you were the World's Greatest Detective."  
  
\----  
  
"She knew?"  
  
"Of course she knew, Clark. She knew before we did. Don't ask me how--the same way Alfred did, I suppose."  
  
"Alfred knows about this?"  
  
"And I think your mother has her suspicions. She did raise you, after all."  
  
Clark fell silent, just staring at the other man for a few, long moments. Long to them, at least. Bruce could have taken down ten of Joker's goons in the time it took for Clark to find his voice again.  
  
"She said she was okay with it? Are you sure it was really Lois?"  
  
"She loves you. Every part of you. Even the part of you that loves me. I'm paraphrasing a little."  
  
"I don't know what to say..."  
  
Bruce scoffed. "Then don't. Kiss me."  
  
"I don't think I--"  
  
"I didn't tell you to think, Clark." Bruce closed the distance for him, kissed him hard, until - hesitance subsiding - Clark kissed back.   
  
Maybe...  
  
Maybe new memories weren't such a bad plan.


End file.
